The Last Arrow by Marsha Canham

Author:Marsha Canham
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Medieval
Published: 2012-02-06T21:13:20+00:00

A sudden picture of Griffyn Renaud de Verdelay popped into Brenna's mind and the comparison was not favorable.

Arrogance and constant mockery could hardly be considered genial. Compassion? He probably kicked small dogs and frightened children half to death if they crossed his path. Thoughtful? To his own ends, perhaps. Brave? Well, she had only the one incident this afternoon to liken his behavior to and that had been against three ruffians with nary more than a couple of dull blades between them. Animal lust was not passion. A well-executed kiss was not a sign of devotion, and bathing a bruised throat with cool water was no proof of enduring tenderness. As for sainthood

... he was probably dicing over some blowsy wench right now, or lying naked on a bed of furs urging some silly girl to rub lower ...

Brenna returned to sit by the fire, but her cheeks were warm enough and she kept walking, nodding at a group of Amboise guardsmen who looked up from their conversations as she drew near. Two of the burliest accompanied her to the riverbank and guarded her privacy while she washed and tended herself, and when they escorted her back to her tent, she yawned and bade them good night, then doused the lantern and crawled onto her pallet of soft furs. Another yawn sent her snuggling deeper but her eyes remained wide open. She lay there in the semidarkness listening to the voices, the laughter, the singing, the clink of tankards and ever-present grinding of whetstones ... and felt more wide awake than she had all day.

Blaming the cold river water for revitalizing her, she curled herself into an even tighter ball and forced her eyes to close, determined there would be at least one fully refreshed, clear head in camp come daylight. Moreover, it would likely be one of the last chances for a good night's sleep before they departed for England.

"Ivo is boasting he will snap this Prince of Darkness in two like a dried twig."

Brenna groaned into the furs as more eager speculators passed by the tent.

"More than that, he says he will do it on the first pass and spit this golden falcon on his lance like a trussed capon."

"Hah! I have two deniers to wager—think you I would squander them on the boastings of a fat dolt?"

"Boastings? Did you hear that women have been forming lines outside his tent, some of them just to see the size of his cod?"

"Whose ... Ivo's or the Prince's?"

The sound of a fist clouting a shoulder drifted through the canvas. "The Prince of Darkness, of course. He is taking on all comers now, in the lists and out."

Brenna sighed and sat up. Lines of women, indeed. Snakes for hair. Eyes that flashed fire. What in God's name did they say about Robin behind his back?

She drew her boots on again and went to the door. No one was showing any interest in her darkened tent, and she felt suddenly rebellious enough to take advantage.

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